


Every Dog Has His Day

by trajektoria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Dog!John, Doglock, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Hybrids, M/M, New Year's Eve, Sherlock AU, Tender Sex, were!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On most days John didn't really mind that he was a half-human, half-dog hybrid: he had an excellent sense of smell, the ears on top of his head could hear a lot better than those of an ordinary human being, and his long tail helped him to maintain his balance, as well as indicate his mood far more effectively than facial expressions alone. Everything was different on New Year's Eve, though, when the whole world went mad with noises and lights. John was getting more and more restless, barking and whining in turn, unable to find any peace. If only Sherlock would at least come home from that bloody lab and provide him some comfort! What an insensitive git.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Dog Has His Day

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the RP I had with [mccreamer](http://mccreamer.tumblr.com/). She was Sherlock and I was John. I made some changes to the text and added an extended ending, but it was a joint effort. Original can be found [here](http://seasonsofjohnlock.tumblr.com/post/71586732448/brilliant-rp-youre-now-chatting-with-a-random). 
> 
>  
> 
> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

On most days John didn't really mind that he was a half-human, half-dog hybrid. Actually, it was pretty useful. He had an excellent sense of smell, the ears on top of his head could hear a lot better than those of an ordinary human being, and his long tail helped him to maintain his balance, as well as indicate his mood far more effectively than facial expressions alone. Everything was different on New Year's Eve, though, when the whole world suddenly went mad. It was even worse than a war - all those fireworks exploding everywhere at random intervals, the chaos on the streets, the noises, smells, bright lights... John was getting more and more restless, barking and whining in turn, unable to find any peace. If only Sherlock would at least come home from that bloody lab! Working on New Year's Eve when John needed him the most, really. What an insensitive git.

 

John knew he couldn't take it all anymore; it was too stressful to face it on his own. He swallowed his ex-soldier's pride and sent a text to Sherlock, having trouble typing with his shaking hands.

 

_When will you come home? JW_

  
The reply came a few minutes later, after John had already forsaken any hope that the bastard of a detective would actually deign to give him an answer.

  
 _When I'm done. SH_

  
Typical. What a prat.

  
 _And when will you be done? JW_

  
_When I've effectively recorded the temperature needed to boil blood when mixed with various substances, which would go a lot faster if you'd stop asking questions. SH_

  
John's store of patience had been severely depleted recently, and it didn't take much to make him see red, especially if it was Sherlock's douchebaggery.

  
 _Goddammit, Sherlock! Do you know what day it is today? JW_

  
He could almost see Sherlock searching with disinterest inside his mind palace to find the answer to such a mundane inquiry.

  
 _Another question. It's Wednesday, I believe. Problem? SH_

  
John had really had enough.

  
 _Yes! It is a fucking problem! It's New Year's Eve! Can't you hear all the fireworks? It's driving me insane! JW_

A few seconds later the message was supplemented with another, less frantic and more pleading, one.

 

_Come home. JW_

  
_Right. Stupid holidays tend to slip my mind. Are you sure I need to come home? I'm rather busy. SH_

  
John stared incredulously at the screen, the rising fury and disappointment in his chest nearly knocking the wind out of him.

  
 _You know what? No. You don't fucking need to come home. Ever. I don't care. I've been telling you about this for the past two weeks, asking you to be home today with me, since you know perfectly well what all these noises and scents do to me. But your lab is far more important, it seems. Fine. Stay there and have fun. Happy New Year. JW_

  
He honestly thought that would be the last bit of interaction they would have, but Sherlock surprised him with a text just a while later.

  
 _Well, if I turned back now, that'd just be a waste of cab fare. I will be home shortly. Hopefully you are not too cross with me. You're rather unenjoyable to be around when I've angered you. SH_

  
John didn't grace this obvious provocation with an answer, for fear of being less than civil and sending him a string of profanities. Part of him was still steaming with anger, but the larger chunk - probably the canine one - was simply relieved. Selfish dick or not, Sherlock could at least provide some company, and a bit of human contact could perhaps soothe him right now.

  
John threw the phone on the table and lay back on a couch, curling up in a ball and hiding under a blanket, while whining shrilly in distress. He just hoped Sherlock would hurry up. The worst was yet to come, as the clock would strike midnight in half an hour.

  
As promised, a black cab pulled up to 221B, letting the oblivious detective out. Honestly, he hadn't even remembered John asking him to stay with him. Hell, he hadn't even cared to remember what day it was because it simply wasn't important. Still, he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt as he heard loud pops in the distance, followed by silver sparking strings in the sky. He made his way up the stairs, his long legs easily taking them two at a time. He entered the flat and immediately noticed the trembling lump on the couch. With a sigh he shrugged his coat off and hung it up, revealing his white shirt that had careless blood splatters up the middle. He'd been in quite a hurry to get to John and hadn't paid attention to the state of his attire.

  
"Hello, John," he said softly from across the room.

  
John peeked hesitantly from under his blanket. Frankly, he looked quite terrible with his pale skin, dark circles under his eyes and the grimace of torment painted on his face. His ears were pressed flatly to his skull, almost indistinguishable from his puffy, sandy hair.

  
"Finally, you git," he muttered in a hushed voice, the tone betraying uneasiness. A loud crack tore through the air and John whimpered involuntarily, hiding under the blanket again. He was a pitiful bundle of nerves and an erratic mess of fears right now.

  
Sherlock’s arrogance expected a show of gratitude, but he was greeted instead with an insult. He brushed that off easily, suddenly finding himself overly concerned for the man shaking under the blanket. Quickly analyzing how awful the situation actually was to the hybrid, which a normal person could plainly point out, but a genius such as Sherlock was able to identify in seconds, he made his way over to John and took a seat on the couch behind where his flatmate was curled.

  
"It's alright now, John," he stated, comforting obviously not his division.

  
When John felt the couch sagging under the weight of Sherlock and heard the hum of his calming voice, the doctor shifted momentarily around and crawled closer to him, resting his head on Sherlock's lap like a loyal dog. He pulled the blanket down a bit to look up at the detective.

  
"Thanks for coming," he said, glad that he wasn't alone anymore. He even squeezed Sherlock's knee gently to show that he appreciated it a lot, despite the harsh words from before.

  
Confused by John's proximity, Sherlock tried to process the proper way of helping the situation when another firework swished just outside their windows and John froze in terror. At yet another cascade of loud bangs, he yelped, pressing his hands over his ears.

  
"Oh God, Sherlock..." he breathed in a heart-wrenching tone, unable to calm down.

  
When the loud noise shook through the flat, Sherlock's body subconsciously took over the rational mind. He bent over, cradling John's head, his chest heaving next to the side of his face.

  
"It's fine. We're fine," he reasoned, his usually cold voice suddenly becoming smoother and almost soothing.

  
John let out a long, unhappy whine and snuggled closer to Sherlock, nuzzling his face against the man's chest. He could clearly smell human blood on the detective's shirt and some weird, pungent chemicals, but oddly enough the scent was quite... comforting. Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle.

  
"It'll be midnight soon..." he murmured darkly, not sure how he'd survive this. He was at the end of his tether.

  
As his eyes drifted to the clock across the room, Sherlock realized John was right. They had less than ten minutes before London would be bursting with the sounds and colors of welcoming the New Year, a celebration Sherlock found annoying, but John found unbearable. He pulled the shorter man completely onto his lap, facing him. He put his large hand to the back of his head and pushed it into his shoulder, humming lightly, his other arm wrapped around his waist protectively. Not sure where the intimacy came from, it was still the best he could offer.

  
John hadn't quite expected Sherlock to be this understanding and caring. He had mainly wanted him in the flat as a distant reminder that the whole world didn't in fact slide right into the maddening cluster of noises, but what Sherlock was doing right now, though unexpected, was very welcome. He gladly put his head on the detective's shoulder, hugging him closely. It was a very intimate situation, as one adult man was basically straddling the other. John could smell Sherlock's cologne, a very pleasant and rich scent of poshness, so he inhaled it deeply a few times, feeling a bit of tension leave his body. Yes, all hell would break loose soon, but for now he could relax, even if just for a little bit. As a sort of 'thank you' gesture, he rubbed Sherlock's side gently with his hand.

  
As odd as it may seem, the position they found themselves in was neither uncomfortable nor awkward. It was right, despite the tense situation that caused the need for it. Sherlock could feel John's slightly elevated heartbeat, the heat, the breath. All John. He was glad that it seemed comforting as he noticed the gentle hand at his side. He sat there, face as blank as ever, humming softly by John's ear. His hand rubbed small circles on his back, to let him know that he was there, and was not leaving. The silence, only broken by a distant pop, was not heavy. Soft humming, soft breaths. Closeness.

  
John closed his eyes, nearly lulled to sleep by this feeling of warmth and safety that came with Sherlock's arms around him, soothing him. He didn't know what he would have done if the detective had decided not to come back to the flat. That would have been horrible. The moment right now, thankfully, was as far from horrible as possible. A quiet voice in his head told him that he wished they could be like this more often. Glancing at the clock, John saw that it was almost time and his ear twitched in agitation, tickling Sherlock's cheek.

  
"Two minutes," he whispered, his lips brushing lightly against Sherlock's neck as he spoke.

  
The flickering shadows of a touch against his skin burned in a pleasurable way that Sherlock was almost sure wasn't supposed to happen. Two minutes.

  
"Just don't think about it, John," he said softly. Not the best advice, but now there was less than a hundred seconds, and they hardly had time for something more elaborate. The hand that cradled the back of his head, nudged him closer against his shoulder, hopefully shielding his eyes from the glow.

  
"Don't focus on the noise. Focus on feeling." His hand pinched lightly at the back of the hybrid’s neck as an example. "Feeling, John. You and me," he rambled on, his fingers extending to trace up his spine, hoping to bring a different sensation, remind him it'd be okay. Holding his breath, he kept John close, pinching or tickling at different parts of his back, tail, or neck, counting down anxiously to midnight.

  
"Feeling. You and me," John echoed quietly, buring his face into Sherlock's neck. That was useful advice in fact, to avert his attention from what was about to happen. He could feel Sherlock's hand moving all around his body and that was a nice sensation. Something to treasure and revel in. When the deft fingers ran along his spine, John pushed at them instinctively with his back, wanting to be petted. Every canine hybrid harboured the need to be considered a good boy deep down. John didn't see the clock, but he could hear people on the street shouting the numbers.

  
3... 2... 1...

  
The apocalypse began. John yielped loudly in pain as his ears were attacked by the frantic cacophony of sounds, hurting him physically.

  
Personally unaffected by the noise outside, Sherlock had done everything he could to shield the man in his lap. The low pitched whines that were escaping the hybrid's throat were absolutely heart breaking, even to the consulting detective, who was convinced he didn't have a heart, metaphorically of course. He moved both hands to clasps John's cheeks and brought his forehead against his own. After a moment, the hands slid up from the cheeks and cupped themselves over the ears, trying to create a wall between the minor explosions occurring outside and the hybrid's eardrums. With their foreheads pressed together, he had to adjust his eyes just to see John.

  
"You. And me. You and me," he whispered softly, trying to get the man to look at him.

  
It was almost impossible to break free from the world of pain and explosions that seemed to surround him from every angle. Every swish and boom filled his heart with dread and primal terror.

  
"You and me," John muttered groggily, trying to ground himself, to lose himself in Sherlock, not the horrid noise. "You and me." Sherlock was like an anchor, the only instance of sanity in the universe that went mad. "You and me," he whispered again, lifting his gaze to the detective. His eyes were red and watery and he had to blink away the tears gathering there. His hands moved to Sherlock's cheeks, cupping them, his thumb brushing against the protruding cheekbones. Breath still shallow and rapid, he tried to focus on the man before him, who was doing everything in his power to protect him from the chaos. "You and me."

  
"You and me," Sherlock said the phrase that had just been repeated by John in the most devastating way he'd ever hear someone try to calm themselves. The feeling of warmth on his cheeks made him try to offer a soft smile. He watched closely, eyes shifting in the way they did as he observed a case. He noticed the strong man being broken to nothing. The flat still seemed to vibrate with London's celebration, bringing noise and smoke to the streets. What he was about to do could take a turn for the worst.

  
"Feeling," Sherlock whispered before turning his chin down a bit, his lips meeting John's in the most desperate way, yet light and comforting, just a sweet brush.

  
When he felt Sherlock's mouth on his, John's world shrunk just to that sensation, this burning fire on his lips that travelled right into his heart, piercing it like Cupid's arrow. His eyes widened in surprise and he gasped softly. That was what he wanted, what he had needed all along, he concluded with surprise.

  
Immediately assuming that he'd messed up or had terrible timing, or his affection just wasn't welcomed, a hundred possibilities flashed in Sherlock's mind as he watched the red eyes widen.

  
All his theories were proven false. As the world outside went insane with their firecrackers, singing, and shouting, John leaned forward, giving Sherlock a kiss of his own, a bittersweet one, a desperate one, laced with need and affection. Feeling. You and me.

  
Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as he leaned back into the couch, hands tangled in John's hair, still covering his head. His lips moved with John's, allowing him to take the lead, use Sherlock’s mouth as he needed.

  
With his pulse thrumming deafeningly in his ears and Sherlock's warm hands protecting them, the pandemonium on the streets seemed distant and insignificant. Only feeling counted right now. You and me. Both lips moving eagerly, joined in a heated kiss. Both tongues mingling as they explored each other’s mouths. John's hands sliding up to Sherlock's hair, covering the man's ears in turn as he repaid him for the much appreciated favour. Nothing else mattered apart from their connection. It was really just you and me, and nothing else. The whole world could stop existing in that very moment and John wouldn't give a damn.

  
There was nothing like this feeling. It was the best and the worst because Sherlock was absolutely certain that he'd never get to experience this again, until perhaps next year. Those darkened thoughts were soon pushed to the back of his head. Their lips melded like they were meant to stay locked forever. Though the excitement outside had burned down to crackles, it had never been so loud in Sherlock's head. Not painfully loud, exciting loud, words repeated through his skull. You and me. His fingers nudges softly in the hair, still sure to cover the ears.

  
John only pulled back when his lungs were screaming for air, deprived of it by the desperate kiss. He panted heavily, his pupils dark and blown. There were only two ways in which this could end - they could either kiss again, which probably wouldn't end just in kissing, or they could stop, laugh nervously, and attribute this moment of deep connection to stress. John looked at Sherlock with a rather lost expression on his face. The noise had almost died down, it barely existed anymore in John's mind. The only indicator of the hybrid's mood was his tail, which wagged against Sherlock's knees, pointing to the fact that, all in all, its owner felt happy. He liked the kiss, he loved it. That kiss saved him.

 

"You and me?" he whispered on the verge of audibility, breathing hot air on Sherlock's damp lips.

 

Breathing. Breathing was boring. The detective found himself aware of how long he'd held his breath, lost in the sweet lips that were connected to John, only when he was gasping for a breath, chest heaving up and down, heart beating at an almost alarming rate. He did a quick self evaluation and concluded that he now regarded John with great sentiment. What concerned him more was that this was over, John wouldn't need the comfort anymore, though Sherlock was obviousl in this beyond comforting a friend. He watched through the darkened room, which faded around them, leaving only him and John. You and me.

  
"You and me," he whispered, hoping that he was correctly picking up on the suggestion.

  
A smile, the first one this evening, appeared on John's face, and his eyes lit up, all pain and despair long gone.

  
"Thank you," he said softly and leaned again to the kiss. It was brief, but sweet, filled with affection. John rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder and hummed in pleasure. If he were a cat and not a dog, he might have started to purr.

  
"I think I hate New Year's Eve a little less now," he stated, pressing his hand to Sherlock's chest, feeling his heartbeat, quicker just like his own. He found himself tired after everything that had happened, but very content. There was a shift in their relationship and he was excited to see where it would lead them. Until now he hadn't been sure that Sherlock was even interested in things like kissing. Apparently he was. Thank God.

  
Sherlock concluded that it felt extremely satisfying to be needed. He felt as if he'd just solved a case, like he'd just solved ten cases, ten serial killer cases, locked doors, the whole gig. He hadn't felt this way ever in his life, it was addicting. John, John was addicting. The short kiss sent shivers through his body, so complex, the human body. Letting go of John's ears as the noises ceased, he cautiously covered John's hand with his own, and leaned his head against the blonde's.

  
"A brilliant way to start the year," he observed softly.

  
"Yes. With a bang." They both chuckled at the terrible pun, enjoying very much the position they were in. The silence was enjoyable and the warmth comforting. Truth be told, the dog in John was starved for a little human contact or affection. Sherlock was always so cold and distant, the hybrid was sure that he'd never get that little warm spark he needed from the detective. It seemed he’d been painfully wrong. For a while he was silent, just listening to Sherlock's breath, not even paying attention to some isolated explosions in the distance. He was calm and safe in Sherlock's arms.

  
"So... what now?" he asked about nothing in particular and everything at the same time. He wanted to know what would happen to the two of them, to you and me, and he wanted to know what would happen next, right in the immediate future. So many questions without answers.

  
'What now?' Rang in the sweet voice of John. The genius had an answer for everything... except that. He didn't know what to say without tilting to an extreme on either side. He held his breath, pondering the question in more silence.

  
"Now?" he repeated, still thinking. "Now we do - and are - whatever you like," he remarked, knowing that it wasn't a proper answer, but, to be fair, he didn't find the question proper either.

  
That answer seemed to satisfy John, though, as his smile widened.

  
"Good," he said softly, brushing his lips against Sherlock's neck. Perhaps what they were didn't need to be said aloud or have a proper label. After all, both of them were different, considered weird even, so no wonder that their relationship would perhaps be just the same. And John didn't really mind as long as Sherlock would kiss him and hold him like that.

  
Relief filled Sherlock as that seemed acceptable. No labels were good. He was John. He was the you to their you and me. That was good enough, they didn't need to fit into any box.

  
For a while they sat in a pleasant silence, interrupted by John when he stifled a yawn with a quiet hum.

  
"Let's go to bed," he proposed. “I'm knackered.”

  
Sherlock watched the tired blond for a moment more, before he stood with John still attached to him, fearing for his spine, but too determined to resign. He helped to wrap the hybrid's legs tightly around his waist, holding him close, as he walked to his room where he gently laid the man down, crawling over him to his side of the bed where he covered them both. He curved his body around the shorter man and kissed his cheek.

  
"You and me," he breathed.

  
“Yes, you and me. Always,” John agreed, reaching with his hand to Sherlock's hair, pulling the man into yet another languid kiss. They didn't rush anything, they had time to feel each other, caress each other, let their mixed scents fill the air. John lapped his tongue slowly at Sherlock's lips, his neck and temples, savouring the taste of the detective in his mouth and letting his nose scent him, cataloguing all the shades of perfection radiating from Sherlock. The man was his, only his. Not like a master over a dog, but like a friend and a lover, as an integral part of you and me. There was only one thing John wanted right now and he whispered it into Sherlock's ear.

 

“There's a bottle of lube in the drawer of my bedside table. Bring it if you want me,” he murmured with an enticing, relaxed smile. The wreck of a person from before had disappeared completely. They didn't need to say anything more, voice questions or doubts. Completely in tune with each other, they both knew what they truly needed.

 

They made love that night for the first time. It wasn't a clash of passions, consuming and overwhelming, burning red hot and driving them insane by sheer intensity as two bodies worked against one another to reach completion and disintegrate in the throes of orgasm surging through their every cell. It wasn't anything like that. The sex was tender, slow, lazy even, with many sweet kisses shared and little smiles exchanged freely that showed they both couldn't be happier, making each other feel good. And when they finally collapsed on the bed as a tangled mess of limbs, John covered them with a blanket, leaving only his furry appendage out. Nothing could scream as loudly about love as a wagging tail and a warm gaze of hybrid eyes. John slept peacefully in Sherlock's embrace, soothed by the thought that even if all the fireworks in London exploded right now, he wouldn't care less, safe in bed with Sherlock, his you to his me.


End file.
